


M1 - Witcher

by CreativeLiterature



Series: Medieval Simulation [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Game of Thrones (TV), The Tudors (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Self-Insert, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28556652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativeLiterature/pseuds/CreativeLiterature
Summary: Five people live out their medieval fantasies within a simulated environment, drawing from multiple fandoms. Some explicit scenes. Please note, this is more silly than serious.
Relationships: Alistair (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s), Zevran Arainai/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Medieval Simulation [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092293
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**PROLOGUE**

This simulation was a mix between several games: Elder Scrolls Skyrim, Dragon Age, Game of Thrones and The Witcher 3. Adam, Clara, Max, Grace and Zoe would enter with one trump card: their entry into the game would depend on what they wanted to happen vs. what they secretly valued.

In a circle the five of them stood, looking down upon a glowing blue globe while simulacrum spanned out for eternity beyond. Randomly, the voice chose Zoe first.

“Me?” asked Zoe gruffly. “Alright - “

“What is it you most want from this simulation?” asked the voice. “If you could ask for one thing in one word, what would it be?”

“Knowledge,” she admitted, and when further probed, replied, “I want to know my enemies so I can take them down.”

Next was Clara’s turn.

“Clara wants the boys!” Max churlishly chided.

“Shut up, dick,” Clara snided, scowling. “I want gold. To buy everything I want.”

Next came Grace’s turn, faltering under the other’s eye contact and attempting a reasonable smile. “Um, I dunno. I don’t want to fight, so beautiful things, maybe? Hehe.”

“That’s more than one word,” Clara observed in a droll manner.

“Beauty,” said Grace, the first single word that came to mind. But it wasn’t personal vanity she was thinking of.

Next it was Adam’s turn. He quailed under the supposed impatience of the others, but felt churlish to ask ‘for friends’. “Safety. I want to be able to defeat my opponents.”

“Which is it?” Zoe provoked with a raised eyebrow.

Next came Max’s turn.

“Bitches!” he grinned, to no-one’s amusement.

“Bitches?” Clara was disgusted. “And what if you spawn in a cage full of dogs? That’ll serve you right.”

“I want the ladies,” Max beamed. “Sluts, whatever.”

“Confirmed,” spoke the voice. “Do you each wish to know the others’ situations or will you wait until you find one another? A vote will be taken - “

“No,” replied Clara and Max.

“Yes,” came Adam and Grace’s urgent replies.

The tiebreaker was Zoe, who didn’t care a jot. “Fine. Yes.”

“Zoe will be a masterful mage practising the darkest arts in hiding. Clara will be heiress to wealth beyond measure. Grace will tend to the horses of a small estate. Adam will be a modest landowner. Max runs the crime underworld of the kingdom.”

“Horses?” Grace beamed, who could have no further ambition. “Yay! Will I ride them well?”

Their vision blurred as their minds were disintegrated into warp speed…


	2. Chapter 2

Adam

Traveling up the trek towards the small town in sight, Adam breathed in the fresh air and bright sunlight overhead as he carried on through the lane, lined with wooden posts where acres of sunflowers grew as plentiful as potato or wheat crops. He wore a leather jerkin over a white shirt, with brown trousers and soft shoes. His blonde curls were sprightly and his face speckled with acne. At his hip was a duelist’s rapier, to which he paid little attention as he walked up the lane and towards the village which beckoned.

Little kids rushed to his side and beckoned he follow as he made his way through the small hamlet. A fat housewife cooking sausage on a pan beamed out of her window while two gentlemen doffed their hats at the sight of him.

“Good afternoon,” said Adam, continuing on past their gazes and further up the lane where the sunflowers ended and vast greenery stretched forth.

He passed a trio drinking port wine amidst a picnic, upmarket residents from estates around the land now that Adam glimpsed the vast land before him, he could see mansions that were sizeable and larger than his own. The trio wore plaid and feathers in their caps, inviting him to sit but Adam moved on, eager to see his new property.

Soon the rolling landscape gave way to an incline where workers bent over rows of grapes, grown for produce in wine as he greeted them all by name and hurried to his place, which sat atop a neat hill and bore the hallmarks of a rustic property, with a small oven in the kitchen and a cosy feather bed tucked with several warm layers of wool. The housekeeper was a woman named Martha who lived in the village and would cook his meals three times a day, and tidy the house when it needed it. With the proceeds he received from the grape-growing he was more than capable of paying her wages as well as keeping the nearby hamlet in pitch-perfect state.   
He, unlike others, intended to stay far out of the way.

Clara

“... presenting the Lady Clara.”

Clara stood at the top of the stairs barely long enough for those to glimpse her face, as she descended the steps with posture erect and expression unchanging from that of a blank, uncaring palette. The ladies-in-waiting took envious stares while the rowdy or polished men took an entirely different interest altogether. With the wealth of the nation behind her, Clara had spent the last forty minutes in her dressing room picking between various cloths and jewels and corsets, the best that the kingdom had to offer and none of which was displayed on the debutantes who stood below, as they had made their descent with hair curled just so and smiles so pretty, whereas Clara’s stark indifference made her a glacial beauty than a vivacious rose.

The crowd stepped aside to grant her audience onto the dance floor, where the newly crowned king was seated upon a throne. Absent a wife and an heir, he could not be more enthralled to see the young beauty standing before him, his name King Alistair, and when Clara bowed like a courtier, the ladies giggled at this and Clara’s cheeks inflamed. She fancied herself a bit of a tomboy, and though outshining the women came with its own sense of pride, she would not abandon her wiliness for sheer conformity. That’s what riches were for, to bend people to your will.

“Lady Clara, it is a pleasure to meet you,” said King Alistair, who was seemly though a touch inexpert, more of propriety than the lecherous ones who stood about the court, landed gentry gripping canes with old hair, or effete mustachios who valued a pretty wife on their arm, dark horses with warfare in their blood, or else good natured souls who cared not a jot for social ambition. “You are welcome here at court. Please, all of you! Enjoy the feast!”

And with that, the music began and merriment continued, while waiters circulated with gilded platters of food and glasses of wine.

Moving through the crowd, Clara wore a gown that was red in shades of gold, covering her bosom and reaching to her ankles, where she wore heel shoes woven with fine fabric and detailing. Her golden hair was held tight in a bun so that all could see her seemly aristocratic neck and posture, while her green eyes fixed no-one with their notice. Around her neck she wore a gold pendant necklace, more valued than any of the jewels worn by the other ladies as the filigree was encrusted with tiny diamonds, the most the kingdom’s miners could find and as rare as they were, Clara had coin enough to possess them.

She introduced herself to a gaggle of ladies who with their sapphire-or-emerald necklaces and cinched corset dresses had admired her with envy from afar but warmed as she seemed, quite honestly, normal and for their sakes, glad that the men had stopped buzzing though they were clearly keen to enter the fray.

“I must say, my lady,” inserted a man into the conversation, brazen and bubbling with attitude that bespoke of higher birth. Clara gave him a blank stare. “You are clearly the belle of the ball in that outfit.”

“Indeed,” came an effete voice behind him, fighting for scraps like the courtier he was. “Utterly the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.”

Clara scoffed at this, so mighty was her open disdain that even her ladies stepped back like geese in behest. “I am not the most beautiful. Not only that, I am less a lady than Isolde or Maria here. You should talk to them, for I am not interested in suitors.”

Isolde was a petite, lank girl with a sad smile while Maria was burning with fiery passion, both relieved to hear of Clara’s admonition though adeptly surprised at her admonition.

This shocked half the court listening, as Clara was aware it had made waves and nodded to both the ladies, who curtsied though silently appalled, and she made her way through the archway into the hallway, where the double doors closed behind her and she found a chaise longue on which to sit and compose herself from the heat inside.

Rich, certainly, but unpopular? That would not do, not for Clara. She was not stupid, she might be vain but not at the expense of losing favour. And men? Forget about it. She chose money for this very reason - so she wouldn’t need to be around louts who were ignorant of everything about her.

She swept up her dignity and her gown trailed behind her, few eyes remaining in the entrance hall to watch her go, out into the courtyard where her wheelhouse was waiting, with an escort of household soldiers in white-plate mail ready to escort her back to her estate.

Max

Max had enjoyed his fill of whores, ready and willing of every sort of caliber. Red haired or blonde or black-haired, pale or creamy or tan or dark, with big breasts preferably but he had settled for smaller, long legs with red talons, vivacious and thrusting or naive but willing, he had savoured them all as he sat spread-eagled in a corner pub with a mug of ale as well-wishers congratulated him on his venal thrust, his colleagues that were both bandits and thieves, more criminal than most and his underworld characters to dispense with at will. They respected him for his lust and hunger, his thirst and drive to win at all costs whatsoever.

“Whaddaya say, boys? Another round?” Max glanced over his shoulder to signal to the buxom wench who blushed in his attention. “Sweetheart! More grog for the lads!”

“Coming up,” she said saucily, pirouetting her tight derriere for the men to fawn over while Max, more than spent by the last few nights bedding every young woman with a pulse, concentrated on the poker hand and spread them before his crew. “Read ‘em and weep, fellas.”

Grace

Grace panted as did her horse, racing past the fields of wheat and poppies, down the lane as she came to a stop at the red brick mansion she called home. Dismounting, she handed the reins to a maid who came rushing out upon seeing the chatelaine’s arrival and took her riding hat and jacket, as Grace ran a hand over her chestnut horse and murmured “Good girl, Grace.”

Inside, the maids were scrubbing and waxing floors, dusting gilded paintings and from the kitchen, the delicious smell of dinner. Grace ran upstairs with each step reverberating throughout the county mansion, which was prim and proper in its surroundings but cheerier than most, as Grace was a gracious hostess and a beneficent employer.

“What a day!” she exclaimed, kicking off her riding boots into a corner and slumping upon the perfectly made lavender duvet of her queen sized bed. Several closets prefaced this bedroom with their doors thrust wide open, declaring pretty dresses and hats on hangers with prim shoes upon their shelves.

“Dinner’s almost ready, miss!” called one of the maids, on an informal communication basis as all the help were with the mistress of the house.

“I’ll be down soon!” claimed Grace, who adjourned to the ensuite bathroom where a claw footed tub awaited her, filled to the brim with hot, soapy water and a loofah with soap.

After washing her body of the stink from horseback, she brushed her long dark hair and changed into a petticoat dress that looked like white curly clouds and descended the stairs for dinner, meeting the servants in the dining room that had been set for ten, as Miss liked to eat with her staff so that she might hear about the day and have company while she ate.

There was the black gardener who oversaw the planting of bulbs, a short wizened man who oversaw the mead and ale through which she earned the income allowing her to live a modest, yet faithfully lavish lifestyle, and the head cook, whom she would always compliment about the meals.

After dinner, Grace retired to her room where she would collapse on her bed and stare out at the starry night from her windowsill. She could hear the whinnying cries of Grace, her pony, plaintively calling for her mistress. Without restraint, Grace headed for the door to comfort her horse.

Zoe

“Stay there!” Zoe demanded, turning to the bandits who began to surround her.

Outnumbered, Zoe sorely regretted getting involved. She didn’t want to make a public spectacle of herself, not that she could in the pitch black of night, but rescuing this lass from harm was the most important thing on her mind. These ruffians, black toothed and dangerous that they were, drew forth with swords and crossbows at the ready - 

“Ignite!” Zoe drew her hands together and flames created an arc around where she stood, impeding the bandits from coming closer.

However, when one took a tentative step forward, the rest followed suit and Zoe shrank, her fear coming in short sharp breaths but she knew what she must do and concentrating hard, focused once again:

“Electrify!”

Bolts of lightning materialised from the air, striking the ground and almost hitting each of the bandits in turn. One ran off frightened; yet the others had no such concerns, apparently convinced these spells were mere bluffs not worthy to bluster about.

“Don’t come any closer!” Zoe dared them, concentrating on their harsh looks and inner souls. “You will all collapse!”

Dark shadows pilfered into their minds as one by one, they fell like dominos, screaming like wraiths and wriggling in their own agony, suffering into void of mind too soon. Zoe helped the girl up, who was shivering in fright.

“Where’s your home?” demanded Zoe too harshly.

The girl took a frightened step back. “I - Nealscape. Thataway. Thank you, thank you so much, mage!”

The girl picked up her fallen belongings and hurried off, in the direction of her village of which the uppermost peaks of the houses could be seen from here. Zoe whistled low in her throat and conjured a glowing silver wolf, whom cantered to her side.

“Protect her till she gets home,” demanded Zoe, and the wolf was eager to obey.

Zoe clicked her fingers, and she disappeared into the blackness of the night as though she had never been born.


	3. Chapter 3

Clara

“I like this one,” surmised Clara, holding the dress to her throat, then absent mindedly discarding it on the pouffe chair where only a few ‘maybes’ and countless ‘nos’ laid further still on the preened red carpet.

“My lady,” spoke Gilla, the lady-in-waiting for Clara’s attendance. “King Alistair has offered you a pick of the finest fabrics in the realm. Surely there must be - “

Clara fixed her with an icy stare. “I will choose when I am ready. Something tells me I won’t like this one.”

The couturier of the salon, renowned for his taste in dressing the finest ladies of the realm, let out a gasp and a flutter as Clara carelessly tossed a gown woven of the finest silk to the carpet, apparently indifferent to the trends which spanned the city.

“Lady Clara,” he ventured, moving forth to which her two bodyguards staunchly resisted cutting off his throat. “These are not my only pieces, no… these are for the ladies in court. Perhaps if you’d be willing, I can make you a collection of your own?”

He spread his hands in an artistic gesture as Clara moved between the hangers of clothing, her disapproval increasing faster as wisps of burgundy and chiffon went tumbling to the floor, whether they were intended for the pouffe was irrelevant. She turned to him, bored.

“What collection?” she pouted.

He beamed, glinting like the beads of sweat on his forehead. “We could call it, Lady Clara’s Collection - “

“How original,” remarked Clara dryly.

“It would be famed throughout the land. Exclusive pieces that could not possibly be recreated, not by myself, certainly not by any lesser atelier,” he scoffed. “You would win King Alistair’s favour in a heartbeat.”

“What makes you think I want to marry him?” Clara swept past her guards who flanked the entryway to the parlour, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

Gilla the lady-in-waiting was aghast. Who wouldn’t want to marry the king? He was handsome, debonair, rich from collecting all the taxes of the people both common and class… besides which, the eternal appreciation of the people for being queen alone!

Gilla decided enviously that this Lady Clara, in her cream velvet gown with gilded filigree, wearing diamond earrings too small to be seen yet the envy of every woman who owned not a bit, was too trumped up for her liking. If some accident were to befall her she wouldn’t be missed…

Gilla blushed and clammed up like a shell as Clara swept past, inspecting the array of jewellery in the display case as the couturier bustling forth to present his wares. Though he wasn’t a jeweller, he collaborated with the best in the business so that both shopping ventures could be completed efficiency and fast… for it was widely known Lady Clara was not one to compare bargains, let alone full-price sale items.

“This is it?” Clara sifted through the necklaces and bracelets, rings and earrings which would’ve fed a city for a year and more. Emeralds and rubies and sapphires glinted in the sunlight pouring through the highest windows installed in the salon. The couturier rushed to open the case but Clara turned towards the entrance. “I’m bored.”

“Will you need any further assistance, ma’am?” the couturier toppled out of his salon in his haste to help the lady up into her carriage, so finely wrought that it glinted in the morning sun, said to be worth more than the ceremonial carriage in which the King traveled. “Will you think about the collection, please?”

Any lady or gentlemen worth their ranking in social circles were aghast to see the finest of couturiers, Monsieur Belvedere, practically begging on the cobblestones as Clara tore her velvet buckle shoe from his grasp and stared icily down from her cushioned perch.

“I’ll think about it,” and with that, her bodyguard slammed the door closed while the horse trainer gave the horses a whip, wheeling down the pavement as everyone stared in envy and greed at the lady above all other ladies in the realm.

Max

Among his other investments which kept the dark belly of his criminal enterprise flourishing, Max owned a brothel which he had learned early on not to shit where he slept. Many of the girls had contracted herpes and other sexually transmitted diseases, so that Max had to remain out of action while he demanded the services of a private doctor, and after his treatment had returned full force to his bedding, though with such a mix of women he decided there had to be a higher pinnacle to reach.

The ladies who swept the streets with their parasols and elegant gait scarcely cast him a second glance; those who were married or widowed certainly had no desire to affiliate themselves with him, and the young debutantes brimming with desire did not want to be kicked out of their mansions, lest their chances of marriagehood be stained by an underground dalliance with the most reputed master criminal in the business.

Not that Max gave a shit what they thought. The busty, lively rhythms of redheads and tavern wenches he met were much more appealing than the stick-thin, rigid blondes he had pillowed on only a few, chance occasions. Though he was notable through infamy, he was unable to associate with the upper classes, except for his connection with Clara - who in this simulation was not related to him by blood - and was quickly becoming known around town for the clothes she wore that ladies envied and diamonds which she alone possessed. She walked with a haughty sense of entitlement, yet had a gaggle of ladies in her service who fawned to be invited to the Lady’s intimate, private dinners. These social climbers had become her closest acquaintances, removed from the ‘common’ upper classes in their own prestige.

Max stumbled through the alleyways of town, with plenty of profit to spare and flicking a gold coin or two the way of a homeless man, whom had more politeness to spare than the effete gentlemen who quivered in the stench of such disreputable filth like himself. Max swore under his breath as a group of men in bowler hats and double-breasted suits glanced his way, meeting the eye of a busty redhead with curls before a series of barrels burst from nowhere and he leapt to pry her from the wreckage, with the result that his eyes went straight to her straining cleavage and when they met eyes, she giggled.

“Hello,” she simpered, easily the lowest class thing he had seen, and that was when he knew he had met his match.

“Hi,” Max grinned, like a Cheshire Cat. “I’m Max.”

“So I’ve heard. I’m Maria.”

Grace

“Miss Grace, you have a letter - “ began the housekeeper.

“I do?” Grace snatched it from her hands when she read the first few lines. “Oh my gosh! It’s from Clara!”

“Who?” inquired the housekeeper, full figured as she cleaned up the remains of Miss Grace’s breakfast.

“Lady Clara,” spoke Grace deliberately, savouring the gilt text which had been written in calligraphic font. “She wants me to go to a dinner. With the king!”

Pans and pots crashed on the ground in the kitchen, as the housekeeper frowned at the crew doing cleanup.

“Keep quiet back there! Don’t you no mind what’s happenin’ in here!” she slammed the connecting door shut so that she could read over Grace’s shoulder. “Wow. Seems mighty fancy.”

Taking a seat on the chair just abandoned, Grace said dreamily, “I can’t believe I’m going to the kingdom. I never thought Clara would ask me! I mean, what am I going to wear?”

“You’ve got plenty a’ clothes,” the housekeeper placed a warm hand on Grace’s shoulder. “Ah’m sure you’ll be the best looking one there.”

“Um, hello?” Grace strained to understand her mother figure’s logic. “Clara’s like really wealthy. She’s got all the money in the land! I’ll have to ask her to borrow something.”

“Will she take kindly to that, d’ya think?” the housekeeper commiserated with a wary frown. “This Lady Clara sounds good enough to be queen - “

“Oh, we’re good friends,” Grace swatted away the peremptory cautions. “I’ll write back immediately - wait, better yet! I’ll see her in person! After all, it’s only tomorrow night!”

After some hurried preparations, Grace changed into her best dress, a lavender gown with a corset belt, her dark hair curly and pinned with a gold headband. She wanted to look her best for Clara. She rode side saddle through the countryside, down the lane where Clara had chosen to live. Her estate towered over that of the country inhabitants and compared to the villas cramped side by side in the city, it was massive, second only to King Alistair’s castle.

As it was, Grace was aghast at such splendour as she rode up to the gates on her pony, paid the guards her invitation and cantered through the gates, down the pathway and past rose gardens and water lilies, hedge mazes and love seats adroitly positioned. It was paradise, thought Grace. Money really could buy all.

She spied Clara standing at the steps of the estate, wearing a golden lace dress that was her most dull but signaled to the help that she had no intention of going out. Still, it was worth more than any worker’s salaries and complete with hat, gloves and the gold chain around her neck, made her the most valuable jewel east of the kingdom.

“Come in,” Clara directed for Grace to follow, which she did after handing the reins of her horse to a servant, gaping at the extravagance of the gilded corridors and high ceilings, large windows affording sunlight to glance in making them the prettiest two girls in the realm. They entered the dining room, where a butler hurried to fasten them into their chairs at a long table which stretched for what seemed like a mile, with a fireplace at one end and curtains pulled high to reveal two double doors into which the  _ inner _ courtyard could be glimpsed. Around the room, waiters were silent in their white gloved attendance to fetch upon the two perfumed ladies, carefully sliced fruit of every variety and pouring cherry wine for Grace, while Clara took lemon iced water as cold as her demeanor.

“So, what did you visit me for?” asked Clara, who looked completely at home in such serene settings though she glanced back as though she were a cobra. “Are you coming to the ball?”

“Yeah, of course I am!” Grace beamed excitedly. “I can’t wait to meet the king!”

“Well, you’ll be waiting forever,” Clara shook out her napkin with a flourish, smoothing it upon her lap. “He sees advisors and members of the treasury and visitors of state. He’s not going to stop his business just because I invited you.”

“I thought you were his favorite?” asked Grace, blanching and dropping her grapes when she caught sight of Clara’s expression.

“I’m not one of his girls,” she scathed. “Nor is he one of my favourites. He is a man, who happens to be king. I don’t even like him in the first place - “

“Clara!” Grace hissed, as though scandalised. “You could be queen, you know! It’s the talk around town!”

“Oh, yeah right,” Clara shook off her admonitions.”Like I want to spend the rest of my days doing charity work for the poor. Oh, and waiting for him to come home. No thanks.”

“I would be queen,” murmured Grace.

“You’d want that, wouldn’t you?” Clara spat back. “Why would I sequester myself in a stingy little castle atop a city of people who pretend to like me, when I can retire to a proper home here, secure and waited on hand and foot by the best my money can buy?”

“Well, it’s lonely here by yourself, isn’t it?” Grace worried. “I mean, don’t you want a husband and kids - “

“Nope,” said Clara, and she was final on the matter. She clapped her hands and rose, so that the butler scurried in to clear her plates. Grace was surprised as another waiter rushed in to do the same, ushering her out of the chair. It was clear the meeting was over.

“Clara, wait!” Grace called out, “I wanted to ask if I could borrow a dress. I want to look good for this ball, and if I have your blessing… “

“You want one of my dresses?” Clara paused.

“Yeah! You always look pretty!” Grace claimed.

Musing, Clara turned for the corridor. “I guess so. But I don’t know if anything I have will fit.”

Inside the bedroom, it was all pink and white and gilt gold. Clara marched across the lacquered wood floorboards, past an impressive gilt bed with pink hangings from the top with white furnishings and closets prefacing a large tiled bathroom with a claw foot tub bigger than her own and a walk-in closet, something few households had space to build. Grace glanced around in wonder at the racks of clothes and gowns, shelves of shoes too countless to bear. “Wow!” was her first reply as she came upon the jewelry case, filled with the famed diamonds for which Lady Clara was known. There were miscellaneous pieces, emeralds and sapphires and rubies of the largest, or most well cut variety that would make most collectors swoon with envy, yet these were pushed out of the way for the few diamond pieces Clara did own, which would surely be put to use tomorrow night.

“Can I borrow this?”

Clara glanced over as Grace removed a glittering ruby necklace from the collection, one she was sure wouldn’t be part of Clara’s conflagration but Clara simply said “No, you’ll clash with this,” and Grace gasped at the gown Clara held out and ushered her to change.

“I’m so thankful for this! Thanks, Clara!”

But Clara was musing over what Grace said. Queen, huh… as she held up the gown she was considering for tonight, there were a lot of girls who wanted to be in her position… perhaps she could present one officially on the way.

“How do I look?” Grace breathlessly emerged from the vestibule, her face as pink with pleasure as the dress she wore.

Clara noted indifferently. “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”


	4. Chapter 4

Max

At the peak of his criminal enterprise, Max brought in a bounty worth savoring over. And here it was true: aboard one of his ships docked at the harbor, his pirate crew had brought in a treasure chest long abandoned at sea, which his crew gleefully crowded around and Maria watched with gold in her eyes for as Max unhinged the top, that was precisely the colour reflected in all their eyes.

Gold coins, doubloons, objects and items that were literally made of gold. Maria had to let out a gasp as one crewmember boldly reached out his hand to cradle a scepter… that looked like it owned to someone royal.

“Who do you think it belongs to?” Maria practically scraped her face with her long red fingernails, watching Max idly examine a crown encrusted with every gem but diamonds.

“Some wealthy merchant, perhaps,” said Max, bored. “I can’t sell this stuff, nobody’ll take it. Perhaps I’ll give it as a gift.”

“A gift?” Maria was shocked. “There are plenty of collectors who’ll want it…”

“Nah. I think a bribe to the king ought to put things in order,” and with that, the matter was closed as was the trunk. Max put some men in charge of sorting the bounty, having pocketed a ring he deemed worthy with which to ask Maria to marry him.

Of course, he still would sleep around, he thought with canny humour as he spun the ring in the air and caught it one handed, stepping off the ship in the pitch black of night. But he wanted to start a family, have kids to roll around with… besides, being with one woman just wasn’t enough for him. He’d have his wife and children here, and go off on adventures to find more families to create off the sea… he chuckled when he thought of all the bastards he had procreated already…

Clara

“Stop shuffling,” ordered Clara, and Grace stood still. “Everyone will be watching.”

“I thought you didn’t care what people thought,” Grace sniffed, adjusting the folds of her gown.

“I don’t,” Clara remained still, waiting in poise confidence for when she would be announced. “It’s you who should. After all, I’m going to make you queen.”

Grace had to stifle her gasp of shock as the crier declared, “Ladies Clara and Grace.”

The great doors opened to grant Clara and Grace entrance into the formal room, both ladies swishing with different auras. While Clara was starkly cold and assured, Grace was nervous and blushing under the glare of so many well dressed men and perfumed ladies who stared in the gallery. Unnoticed by their stares, Clara marched forward through the throng, standing before the king who sat in puppy love, as Clara swept a curtsy that was precisely on point. Grace shuffled forward next, mumbling “Your Grace,”.

“What beauty strikes me, Lady Clara,” King Alistair was struck puppy love dumb.

Clara refrained from comment. She wore a gilded cream dress, with gilt cord piping and fleur de lis design across the white of the dress. Her hair was done up in a bun and makeup starkly neutral, to emphasise the understated beauty of her counterpart.

“May I introduce Lady Grace. She is new to the court and has much to learn.”

Grace swept a low curtsey, enamoured by the sheer handsomeness of the king. Her dress was a full ball gown, in satin pink with flowers tripped about the bodice and necklace. The design and degree of craftsmanship that the ladies sighed at the sight of a young debutante in prime, as King Alistair turned his attention to the younger of the ladies and, it was surprised to note, Clara willingly and without malice gave her the floor to continue.

“Lady Grace, you have as much beauty as Lady Clara, both truly twins,” King Alistair could not believe his good grace. “Please! Enjoy the dance!”

While Clara sat on a chaise longue and fended off suitors, more easily done by attracting a gaggle of ladies who acted on her behalf, Grace was discreetly approached by a courtier who bent down to whisper “The King would like to grant a private audience with you. Please to come this way.”

Amazed, Grace glanced at Clara but she was interested in her flock of hens. Spirited away, Grace met the King Alistair upon the balcony, both columned archways guarded by courtiers and guards alike so that their privacy would not be disturbed.

“Lady Grace,” Alistair walked forward, the picture of regal handsomeness in his woolen doublet and red cloak. “Sweet, Lady Grace.”

Grace’s breath caught in her throat as Alistair took her hand to his lips and kissed it, savoring the warmth of her fragile hand in his own.

“I should very much like to court you, yet with all these prying eyes… perhaps it would be best to have dinner?”

Grace was gobsmacked and showed it. Her innocence made Alistair more forthcoming, who was nervous by nature and giggled a little himself for his foolhardiness.

“I should very much like to, my lord!”

Their spell was broken when a courtier broke in, insisting that the party celebrations continue. Alistair muttered a sharp reprimand, turning to the object of his fancy.

“Tomorrow evening, my love,” he nodded as he began to depart. “I’ll count the minutes until you arrive!”

Grace burst back onto the scene, her face awash with emotion and heart beating as fast as anything. She had to steady herself against a wall, but a waiter hurried to provide her with a goblet of water which she hurriedly downed, most unladylike but uttered a ‘thank you’ that detracted any connotations. She spotted Clara sitting alone on the chaise longue, by now deemed as untouchable by the crowd who rose when she saw her.

“So?” Clara insisted, unfazed by the merriment around her. “What did he say?”

“He wants to have dinner with me tomorrow night!” Grace uttered in an excited, hushed whisper. “I can’t believe it!”

“Let’s go,” said Clara dryly. “If we leave now, he’ll be wanting more later.”

“More?” Grace could contain her astonishment. “Can’t we stay?”

“No!” Clara made heads turn as even though she had dressed down, her statuesque beauty was in stark contrast to Grace’s naive, feminine ingenuity. However, as the ice sculpture solidified many more were welcoming of Grace’s friendliness and grace.

They emerged together out into the night sky, a blanket of stars as a courtier helped first Lady Clara then Lady Grace into the carriage, closing the door as the horses led them down the pathway.

“That was the best night of my life,” Grace gazed up at the castle wistfully.

“Really? That was one of my most boring,” Clara glanced out of the window.

Grace was dampened by this admission. “What would make you happy, Clara? I thought you asked for gold. You’ve got the biggest house, the best clothes and the most expensive jewelry.”

“Shut up,” was Clara’s reply. “I’m rich. I’ve got everything I need.”

Glowering, Grace glanced out of her window and admitted she felt taken down from her high.

Grace

“Welcome, Lady Grace. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

Grace stepped out of the wheelhouse which had been sent by the king to pick her up from her country mansion. To complement her dark hair worn up in a bun, she wore a blue silk gown from her own collection with a necklace of sapphires. Clara had provided her with clothing and jewellery as necessary, stating that she “wouldn’t use any of it” and promptly discarded a third of her collection, all of which was stuffed in Grace’s bedroom smaller by comparison now that it was filled with delicate gowns and expensive jewelry. More dressers and closets had to be moved in so that now she just used it as a sleeping space, with maids working round the clock to ensure her gowns were in pristine condition in case the King called.

Grace was escorted into the castle and into the private dining room of the king’s quarters, where she met Alistair opposite the table who greeted her with a kiss on the hand and offered her to sit, as butlers hastened to fix them with napkins, waiters to pour them berry wine into goblets and a lute player shielded by a screen to serenade them from afar.

“I’ve waited all day for this,” said Alistair, tucking into his dinner. “Dig in, my love!”

After eating, which Grace enjoyed the vast quality of the vegetables and roast pork minted with gravy juices, Alistair bent on one knee to her chair and held her hand in his. 

“Lady Grace, will you marry me?”

The lute player audibly gasped though Grace’s excited shriek disguised it.

“Oh, I will, Alistair! I will!” Grace embraced him in her arms, though it was he who carried her weightlessly in a circle before planting a chaste kiss on her cheek.

“I will make you my queen, before all the realm, I promise you that,” he stared her in the eyes as he held her. “You will have the loveliest jewels, wear the most befitting gowns and be the most courted woman for all afar to see.”


	5. Chapter 5

Clara

Clara bit her lip and watched in silence, not envying the handsome couple who paraded around the dance floor. She stood alone, watched by many, envied by many, but none could say she was jealous of Lady Grace, who wore white for her wedding day in a sweeping lace down tightly belted with string with her brown hair in a bun, her expression rapture for all to see. Lady Clara had approved the match from day one, though there was some who had softened in light of Clara’s actions, for she could’ve kept the king but passed him off to someone younger, fairer of complexion and not a bit a social climber, only a young fawn in love.

Shifting restlessly, Clara had long since excused suitors though by now many wondered if she would ever marry, for whom could compare with the king? As usual, she wore a cream dress belted stiffly with a corset to tighten her waist, her golden curls down her waist and a placid, bored expression on her face. For all her indifference she might be the queen herself.

“May I have this dance?”

The man was elven, with almost dark skin and blonde hair preened back, wearing an elaborate costume for the party which despite his lithe build didn’t quite gel with the suspicious eye of Clara upon him.

“No, thanks,” she rebuffed him, glancing away.

“You are in trouble,” he leaned in close. “And we are watched. Follow me.”

“What?” Clara remained still on the chaise longue on which she perched, watching him.

“It is a member of your household, someone has tipped them off. Let us dance and I will tell you more.”

Intrigued, Clara allowed herself to be swept up in the lothario’s arms, not meeting his eye as the two swept about the room. Many glared openly at the elven man for he was not boastful, whispering in her ear though his lips barely moved:

“Your chariot driver has been paid off. When you leave the party, he will hightail it to a secluded location in the woods not far from your estate.”

“Who ratted me out?” demanded Clara, not failing to keep her voice quiet. “I’ll deal with him.”

“No, my love,” he said, his tones luxuriant in flirtation. “I will handle this. I will follow your carriage once it makes its getaway - “

“What tells me you’re in on the plot?” Clara stiffened, furious and frozen. “I don’t know about you.”

“I am Zevran, my love,” his eyes sped across her as did the words on his tongue, as easily as wine. “And I must bid you adieu. Others will become suspicious. You must trust me, for when you fall into a trap, I will be there to catch you - now slap me!”

Clara didn’t need further remonstration - her resounding slap across his face led many to believe he had gone beyond his grasp, and soldiers escorted him to the door while Clara flounced towards the exit, caring nothing for a backwards glance to Grace who watched in surprise.

Clara entered her carriage, where the driver took a sharp lick to the horses under his rein and off they went, down the paved roads and out of the city, all the while the carriage buckled this way and that. Clara’s apprehension increased, remaining still and quiet and hoping she hadn’t made a mistake. She sensed danger as the valley stretched before her, but the expanse of grass quickly turned to forest which indicated she was not being taken home at all. Zevran had been right.

“Stop this cart at once!” she demanded, acting the part for if she raised no hue and cry it might look suspicious. “I am Lady Clara!”

“Shut your gob,” he shot back darkly, surprising her with his rough accent.

Fear crawled at her insides, until the driver yelled and the horse whinnied; arrows flew through the air and suddenly the wheelhouse upturned with a great crash. Clara shrieked in pain as she was partly crushed under the wreckage, hearing only scattered sounds of nature and trying to emerge from the wooden wreck of what was previously the most beautiful wheelhouse in all the kingdom.

Standing slowly, her hair a mess and gown ruined, she glanced about and saw archers stepping out from behind the trees, arrows notched to their bows. Zevran chief among them came to her; yet he bade her close with a warning signal to his lips.

“Hush, my love!” Zevran bade her to stay behind a rock. “Here they come!”

Clara stayed silent as a team of bandits equipped with swords and axes emerged from the path, shocked upon seeing the wreckage and promptly mowed down with arrows from Zevran’s secretly positioned crew. Clara watched as Zevran approached whom she assumed to be the leader, thickset and gruff as he held a dagger to his throat, with arrows impaling his body.

“Tell the Lady who did it,” Zevran demanded, glancing over to Clara who rose and approached the bandit leader, who spat in her direction. Zevran gave him a kick to the ribs which nearly ended him.

“Y-your ladies’ maid…” he groaned, coughing up blood.

“What?” Lady Clara was all ice. “That bitch.”

The gaggle of Zevran’s archers found something to laugh about in this refined lady’s tongue. Clara glanced at them and they went quiet; for even though she was muddied and covered with cuts and grazes, she was still alarmingly show stopping.

“Give me the knife,” she demanded, and Zevran reluctantly handed it over.

“Are you sure, my love - “

With a short thrust, Clara dug the knife between the bandit leader’s ribs. He groaned feebly and collapsed, no more. Zevran was shocked at the bloodlust in Lady Clara’s eyes, wanting her even more.

“My love, are you alright?”

“No,” she snorted, haughtily. “Someone give me a horse. I’m gonna cut that bitch up.”

Grace

After the festivities, Lady Grace awoke the next morning with sunshine pouring through the drawn red velvet curtains. The royal canopy bed in which she slept was more comfortable than her own, as she leaned on her elbow and glimpsed her husband outfitted in regal garb, waistcoat and pants with his crown atop his blonde locks.

“Good morning, my queen,” he approached her bedside by kneeling and kissing her hand. “Last night was particularly special. I hope you enjoyed yourself?”

Grace nodded, blushing. “Will I have a baby?”

“Soon, I have been told. It is my hope to have a boy, then as many girls as you desire.”

“Mmm,” Grace deferred, rising to bathe and dress.

In her private salon, Queen Grace wore a golden satin gown with bows and ruffle designs. She wore a necklace of gold with slim court shoes. Her ladies maid applied white makeup and red lips so that she looked positively regal. Her dark hair was done up in an elaborate bun with a white hair net.

“Thank you, Camilla,” Queen Grace told her ladies maid.

“You are so lucky, your Grace,” said Camilla, agog at Grace’s luck. “King Alistair is a good man. You will be happy for all your days.”

“Yes,” she told Camilla. Privately, she thought “I hope so…”

“Is everything alright, your Grace?”

“Please, call me Grace.”

“I could not, your Grace.”

“Have you heard from Lady Clara?” asked Queen Grace, rising to glance out of the window through which sunlight poured in, and from this position she could see all the kingdom spread out before her, the distant lands and valleys which encompassed Clara’s estate and her own mansion.

“I heard she was attacked by bandits, but rescued by a mystery man,” said Camilla, rinsing a cloth in water. “Some say he was at the ball.”

“I will go see her,” Queen Grace decided.

Trailing behind her royal gown were four royal guards, including her ladies’ maid who followed her wherever she went to help her dress and keep pretty as the occasion warranted. The castle was huge, with corridors snaking this way and that as she descended the grand staircase, meeting courtiers along the way who bowed at the waist to see the newly crowned Queen. For all their foppish sycophancy, they knew Queen Grace was a good woman, and there could be no blame or trace of scandal that could come from her.

Outside, the royal wheelhouse was at the ready, and Queen Grace entered with her ladies’ maid while the four royal soldiers boarded, with the driver cracking the whip on the horses.

Through the city she went, with shouts and cries of her name resounding as she passed. Grace went pink, liking the attention and glancing to her belly, wondering what having a baby would be like. Camilla took note of Queen Grace’s every action, as the wheelhouse turned onto the lane where Lady Clara’s estate stood. However, as they reached the gates, the household guards whose armor was embossed with Lady Clara’s sigil crossed their spears to the approaching wheelhouse.

“Queen Grace demands to see Lady Clara,” ordered the driver.

“Lady Clara is not here at present,” said the guard. “You will have to wait until she returns.”

Grace stepped out of the wheelhouse, elegant skirts whirling as she came upon the impressive gates of Lady Clara’s estate. “She’s not here?”

“No, your Grace,” bowed the two household guards.

“Oh…” Grace was crestfallen. “OK, I guess let’s go to my house in the country then.”

The wheelhouse set off once more, down the lane in a different direction where it stopped at the mansion where Queen Grace once resided. All of her furniture and possessions had been moved into the castle, so it was now lodging for the workers who provided the income which still went into Queen Grace’s coffers, though now since her upkeep was paid for by the royal treasury, Grace had decreed that after the proceeds had paid for the mansion and the worker’s wages, it was to be donated to charity to help feed the poor and homeless. It had been a benevolent move that won her favour with all classes of society.

“Your Grace!” the workers assembled at once, bowing before the Queen. The rotund housekeeper rushed up, flushed. “You must have lunch with us. It would be a pleasure to have your company!”

“Oh, OK,” Grace went pink with pleasure, inviting her ladies maid to tag along while her royal guards escorted her, eyes glancing about with their steel gauntlets on the hilt of their greatswords.


	6. Chapter 6

Clara

In the black of night, Clara rode her own horse while Zevran rode closest, thicketed by the forest that surrounded them while Zevran’s archers rode as escort, down the lane past mansions whose lights had gone out and curtains had been pulled.

Clara was seething that one of her ladies maids had sold her out. She was so angry she might burst. She had borrowed one of Zevran’s leather armor, a vest that stretched across her skinny frame and kneepads, with a bow slung over her back with a quiver of arrows to match. Zevran included, he and his band had been surprised to learn that Clara was a quick shot with archery and insisted to ride along as Zevran took her to the hideout where the famed criminal leader could be contacted to chase down this Gilla.

“How’s she supposed to be in hiding?” asked Clara icily, her anger heightening Zevran’s adoration. “She’s a fucken ladies maid. I didn’t pay her that much.”

“If anyone can find her, it’ll be the Demon of Fleet Street - “

“The what?” Clara sniggered, to half hearted chuckles from the trio who flanked her. “He’s no Demon. He’s my b - “

Zevran just stared at her, focusing the reins of his horse.

“He’s a big phony. I’ll talk to him,” Clara sped ahead.

They entered the city through side gates and careened through alleyways, coming upon a large black door which they approached in hooded garb, knocking as unseen eyes peered at them from second-storey windows occupied to spy on those who dwelt for this purpose.

“Name?” grunted a shabby, unshaven rotund man whose scabbard clinked with steel.

“Lady Clara,” she said, imperially. The guard was taken aback, Zevran moved forth and his crew were flabbergasted.

“My love, think of your reputation!” Zevran exclaimed, as the eyebolt shuttered closed.

“Whatever,” Clara shrugged him off as if he was a coat. “I don’t care what people think.”

The door swung open to Zevran’s surprise but not to Clara’s, whose assumption was correct: that Max had a plan in place for if his sister was ever to visit. Haughtily she strode across the deserted cobblestoned courtyard, though hooded archers and mad men wielding axes watched her every move, as well as Zevran’s.

“Hold it,” another guard in front of a stone fortress held out his hand. “M’lady, you can enter, but your escort gotta stay here or else leave their weapons here.”

“We will do no such thing!” said Zevran arrogantly, whose twin daggers stuck out in their sheaths.

“Just do it,” Clara turned to them, scoffing. “He won’t hurt you.”

“How do you know that, m’lady?” asked one of Zevran’s hirelings.

“Because me and the Devil,” she rolled her eyes. “Go way back. Now come on.”

Reluctantly Zevran handed over his weapons and motioned for his crew to do the same, while Clara marched through the reinforced door and into a cold foyer of sorts, where guards littered the perimeter.

“Where’s Max?” she asked, daring to say his name which brought surprise into the gimlet eyes of the helter-skelter crew. “Off with some whore?”

“Lady Clara,” came a raspy voice from a man who stood at the top of the stairs. “I’m second-in-command here. I didn’t know we’d have the pleasure of a highborn maid’s visit.”

“I didn’t call ahead,” Clara remarked dryly. Insistently she remained, “Well? Where is he?”

“He’s with the Lady Maria,” he mock bowed like a courtier as she swept him by. “I must say, m’lady. Those leather chaps really suit you. Whether you dress like a man or a woman you take my breath away, heh heh.”

She marched past him without another word, while his guards sniggered in silence. Zevran and his crew followed up the stairs but the second-in-command held them back.

“It’s fine, they can come,” said Clara.

“No offending you, m’lady, but he’s not to be disturbed except by yourself,” he sneered down on elvish Zevran and his compatriots. “You can take it or leave it.”

“Fine. I’ll be back soon,” Clara headed towards the door at the top of the staircase, wrenching it open to find a small office, then a corridor with several hidden doors this way and that, a scullery where a pale maid collected half-eaten plates from a dining room, a golden throne with the chamberpot, a dusty library… finally she came upon the last door from which moans were emitted.

“Disgusting,” Clara screwed up her nose, folding her arms as she heard her brother’s moan of ejaculation and pleasure as Maria let out a similar, though ill-timed shriek of pleasure.

“... oh, baby, you were so great…” came the woman’s voice, too oily and lascivious for Clara’s taste.

“Alright,” Clara hammered on the door. “Open up, dick.”

“Clara? Fuck,” he spat.

“... Clara?” Maria’s voice became insistent. “The Lady Clara? What’s she doing here?”

“I dunno,” Max mumbled. Further words were shared then a sharp slap.

“... no, I’m not, jeez!”

“She’s your whore, isn’t she? No wonder she didn’t marry the king!”

Clara kicked the door open and burst in, bow in hand to meet Max’s shamefaced stare as he covered his bare ass with a pillow. Maria was all tits and waist and ass, sweat-streaked red hair and a fierce expression directed Clara’s way.

“You’re his latest whore, I take it?” Clara was icy.

“You… what are you, a soldier?” Maria could not be more surprised at seeing the debutante Lady Clara in archer’s garb.

“I might be. Now get out. I have to speak to my b - to Max alone.”

“Who do you think you are, bitch?” Maria surged towards her, but Clara punched her score in the jaw, sending her down for the count.

“What the fuck!” Max exploded. “You ruined her face.”

“She started it,” said Clara, not in the least concerned. She tossed Maria out into the corridor. “Don’t come back, bitch. I’ll fucken rip your face off.”

Maria didn’t doubt it. She fled into the privy for privacy. With a bang of the closed door Clara turned fiercely to her brother.

“Yeah, she’s a winner, dick. How many STDs does she have?”

“Shut up, bitch,” Max scowled. “She’s fucken good sex. Like you’d know, you’ve never had it.”

“I didn’t come here to talk about your hookers,” Clara paled. “My ladies maid tried to set me up to be killed and I need to find the bitch.”

“That fucken bitch,” Max became enraged. “Alright. Tell me what you know.”

“This guy at the king’s party, his name’s Zevran, he’s an elf, he told me my chariot driver got paid off to take a wrong turn into the forest. Bandits hit my wheelhouse then Zevran took them out and I killed the bandit leader. He said my ladies maid did it.”

“Shit,” Max scratched his head. “I’ll get my men onto it. They’ll sort it out.”

“Good,” Clara made to leave, but Max held her back.

“Are you a warrior now?” he sniggered at her attire. “Do you even know how to use a bow?”

She notched an arrow so fast he barely had time to blink.

“Course I do, dick,” she replaced the arrow and returned down the steps, into Zevran’s greeting and out into the maze of alleyways.


	7. Chapter 7

CLARA

Clara stormed down from her perch atop the balcony of her private room, through the maze like corridors that formed her estate and into the inner courtyard, where Zevran stood guard over a beaten, portly man with curly white hair who whimpered in pain over the backhand blow dealt to him. Skirts swishing to and fro, sunlight glinting on the gold at Clara’s neck and upon the circlet on her blonde curls, the dusky gown touched by richer fabrics at the edges understating her beauty. Clara’s personal house guards in polished white armor leaned on their greatswords as she angrily approached the nobleman, who made to glance away from her open furiosity.

“You tried to kill me, you fucken bastard,” she punched him on the cheek and he moaned as he fell. “You used my handmaiden as a decoy to get bandits to kill me. What the fuck?”

“You deserve it,” he hissed, malice in his grey eyes. “You took my ancestral home from me. We were forced to relocate elsewhere, where nobody knew us. Following your death I have enough connections and money to wrangle it back into my hands.”

“You’re pathetic. I don’t want to see you again. Zevran, slit his throat - “

“Hold!” cried the nobleman. He started laughing. “You might not want to do that.”

“Why the fuck not,” her gaze was a glare.

The laugh began in his throat and became menacingly. “Because I have proof of your collusion with the Demon of Fleet Street, the mastermind of the criminal underworld.”

“What?” Clara spat angrily.

“He is your brother,” the nobleman smiled. “I paid one of the Crows to report on your actions after finding out they were responsible for taking out the bandits. Turned out I was right,” he spread his hands in mocking laughter. “You are not a true lady. You are the sister of a criminal and a thief, and one would think that would make you more intimidating, yet it is the King’s prerogative to see justice in the kingdom, and I have spread rumours and insinuations that are spreading throughout the country as I speak.”

He began to laugh as Clara stared at him in disbelief, continuing,

“Oh yes. The great Lady Clara will be ruined. The kingdom will rebel. Even your friendship with the Queen will not hold. How could she associate with a murderer? If you kill me now she will have to side with the King who will fight you with his last breath, especially since you are the only woman to have turned away his attentions.”

“You fucking bastard, I will get you for this,” Clara promised.

“You were the belle of the ball that night, I admit. Everyone wanted you, including my sons and especially the King. You made a mistake not pursuing Alistair yourself. You are the mistake that shall be quickly resolved… the one person over whom you have influence no longer is the King.”

“Get him out of my sight,” Clara hissed. “You will pay for this in due course, my lord.”

Two white mailed guards dragged him away, while Clara turned to Zevran with a cold glare.

“I knew nothing of this, my love,” Zevran pleaded. “Please believe me, I would never - “

“You’ve betrayed me, Zevran. I want you and your Crows out.”

“My love - “

“Fuck off!”

Sadly Zevran bowed and professed his love, hurrying out to his dismay and to her rage as she swept back up to her quarters to scheme and plot.

MAX

Max was surrounded, in his chambers and at his compound, as the King’s soldiers slayed his men and came upon the master thief himself in prostrate bare ass nakedness while Maria straddled him wearing a ruby necklace upon her supple youth, scandalised as the soldiers harassed her away and Max was knocked unconscious despite killing several with the blade of a dagger within reach.

Before he knew it, he was chained in the dungeons staring into the face of King Alistair, portly and young with his crop of blonde hair and the crown atop it.

“Why’d you do it?” Alistair asked. “This whole madness… throwing my kingdom into disrepute?”

“What about my bribes, huh?” Max spat, red in the face. “My gold not good enough for you?”

“None of it is yours, it was stolen,” Alistair went pale, looking to his bodyguards. “As for your bribes… it was one of my noblemen who tipped me off. You are the most wanted criminal in the kingdom. I could hardly refuse this chance to take you in and dismantle your criminal ring, so that taxes might rightfully work their way into my treasure room.”

“You fucking freak,” Max rattled the chains which hung him from the ceiling. “I’ll get out of here, you’ll see. I know important people.”

“More important than me? I should not think the Lady Clara, perhaps?”

“What?” Max saw no advantage in denial. “How the fuck do you know that?”

“She is your sister, isn’t that right? The Lady Clara… so respected and pure and yet related to such scum. She will have to be brought in for questioning, too.”

“You leave her alone! Your Queen won’t let you touch her!” Max swelled up with rage.

“My Queen will be disappointed, yes… but the kingdom cheer for your blood, and hers too if she is found guilty. My Queen understands the needs of the people are greater than of the one.”

“Fuck off!” Max spat as King Alistair walked off down the corridor. “I’ll kill you myself you fucker!”

He let out a yell as the gaoler threw a bucket of icy cold water on him, leaving it clattering so that he was to contemplate his crime in solace and discomfort and pain.

GRACE

Queen Grace stood in her bedchambers, idle where Alistair settled into the royal bed.

“But Alistair, what of Clara? What will become of her?” she was nervous.

“She will be tried, and if found guilty she will be exiled, to live among the commons. She has committed the crime of association. She may not be proven to know of his crimes, but her wealth is too great for her to be executed. Still, my men are battering the walls of her estate, she will not come quietly.”

“My king,” Grace beseeched her husband. “Save Clara. She is my best friend.”

“She almost murdered my nobleman Boleyn!” cried out Alistair, wrenching from her grasp. “And I cannot deny the rumours that circulate… that you may have been privy to this criminal act since you are intimately known to Lady Clara…”

“No! I never knew!” Grace fled to the fireplace, in tears. “I did not know a thing!”

Alistair crumpled upon seeing his wife in tears. Approaching her, she shook off his hand.

“Get away!” Grace hitched up the skirts of her nightgown and entered the adjoining bedchamber, for private use should His and Her Majesty sleep in separate rooms. Crying herself to sleep, she awoke in the midnight a sudden thought in her mind, crawling to the lit fireplace and praying on her hands and knees.

“Please God, give me a solution… I do not want Max to die, nor to see Lady Clara dishonored. I need some hope!”

With a sudden foreboding, she turned to see the candles extinguished and the fire flickering into ashes, as Zoe approached in a tight black dress with her hair in a bun. She wore blood rubies at her neck and on her hand, with the gleam of magicks about her.

“Grace,” her voice was stony. “You need some help.”

“Yes!” Grace grabbed at Zoe’s skirts, pleading. “Clara and Max must be saved!”

“It is beyond my measure to save them,” Zoe walked to the arrow slit window where all was calm now that Max was in prison and taxes had begun to fill the kingdom’s coffers. “However, there might be a way to change the situation. I will think on this. You must stay chaste and obedient… you must not give your King reason to suspect your association with me. For I am twice as dangerous as Max ever was… and thrice as discreet.”

As the candles flickered back to life and in the grate, Zoe was gone as though she was a mere shadow retreating from the light. Grace blinked back tears of relief and crawled into bed, sobbing for she wished like she had never before she had not married the man who had condemned her friends to sure fire death or worse.


	8. Chapter 8

CLARA

Clara sat in the lavish parlor of her dressing room, her blonde hair uncombed as she sat frozen on the pouffe, in her dressing robe surrounded by racks of gowns and shoes and hats, display cases of emerald jewellery and intricate circlets and diamonds worth more than what she paid her maids, but she had dismissed all her servants save for the house guards which kept her safe. They patrolled outside her room day and night while the commoners upon the outer reaches of her estate cried her name and for justice, that she might be tried by the court to determine her guilt and eternal fate.

Clara angrily threw a hairbrush at a mirror where it cracked and stormed into her bedchamber, where the bay doors blew open amid the curtain and Zevran stood in the stark moonlight, a silhouette gripping a climbing rope which he swiftly dispatched with.

“My love,” he whispered, hurrying to her.

“Get away!” Clara drew the dagger which she had been carrying ever since the King’s men had begun to breach her walls. Fortified though she was, this place was not a castle with a moat and bowmen to fire from afar. Soon they would take her and she would be dishonored…

“My love, I knew nothing. I have killed the man responsible and abandoned the Crows. I have no longer any master but yours truly,” he pleaded with blue eyes. “I must seek your refuge and your sympathy, for I have scoured my honor by not detecting this earlier… I do it only in your service, my Lady!”

“I am no Lady,” she hissed. “I am lost. For I cannot reclaim my honor with the kingdom nor can I get my letters through to the Queen. There is no hope for me to return to court. I am dead once the king’s men break through my walls.”

“Then let me take you away!” Zevran was impatient. “We will lead a foreign life, away from this land and into another where we will live as mercenaries. We will not be saved by wiling your last hours away, surrounded by the possessions you have falsely come to claim.”

“This is my home, Zevran! Mine!” Clara was furious. “I have too much pride to bow to a usurper King! No! Get out!”

The candles flickered suddenly and the bay doors closed with a slam, as Zoe approached from the corner. Clara made to slink away but Zevran drew his dagger in her defence, as Zoe walked forth, ominously and without fear.

“Put the dagger down, bucko,” she warned him. “This is no game. Clara and I are old friends.”

“You are?” Zevran turned to her. “But this… you must be a witch!”

“I am,” Zoe consented. “I am also your last chance of victory.”

“But how?” Clara asked, biting with anger. “How the fuck do we take out the King?”

“We will not kill King Alistair, nor incite the peoples further,” Zoe shot her a disdainful look. “Max has to die in order for the people to be appeased. In order for that to happen, we need to make it look like Max has died.”

“But how?” Zevran was interested as an assassin. “I will lay down my life for - “

Zoe’s glare was forbidding. “You are useless. Your Crows are useless.”

“I am no longer with the Crows!” Zevran’s shout was a dare.

“I will arrange everything. Do nothing rash, obey only my instructions,” with that, Zoe disappeared into the brink.

GRACE

In the grand ceiling room of the dance floor, Boleyn bowed before King Alistair upon his throat and pleaded his remonstrances, citing that he had been wrong to name Lady Clara as the relation to the great criminal mastermind Max.

“I am shocked by this admission, as are the court,” King Alistair gestured to the shocked ladies and noblemen who could not believe such a committed servant of the King would blaspheme. “It has come to my attention that Lady Clara came into possession of your ancestral home when your debts weighed too heavy. As appreciative as I am that you have handed me the criminal king… you have done a great disservice to the Lady. You will put into chains, my lord, for I fear I shall never recover from this disloyalty. My Queen is greatly hurt by the accusation you have put forth simply for revenge upon the Lady.”

“Your Majesty is too generous, and of course, I am to accept any sentence you must put upon me… “ Boleyn bowed as guards moved forth to imprison him.

Unseen from the rafters, Grace watched from a balcony with her maids in attendance, wondering what a change had come upon Boleyn. He was too politically minded to confess. Had Zoe’s magic affected his mind?

“But I must refuse,” Boleyn leapt with an unseen dagger, and in front of all the court stabbed Alistair through the doublet before anyone could intervene, as shouts and clamors erupted through the court.

“Oh!” Grace knew her cue and played it well, for she was prone to crying as she rushed towards her husband’s dead body, skirts stained with blood as she cradled Alistair in her arms while Boleyn was stabbed several times through the chest. Only in the last seconds of his life did he regain his memory and feebly pointed at the Lady Clara who stood to one side, grimly satisfied.

ZOE

Meanwhile, in the jail, the gaoler fell unconscious as Zoe swept into view, shadow and smoke as she reappeared into Max’s cell. She unlocked the chains which hung him from the rafters and peered out of the small window as he glanced around warily.

“Take my hand,” Zoe extended hers and Max felt a chill, as the two materialised through the stone and upon the rocky shores with waves crashing, outside the castle’s boundaries where the land beckoned beyond.

“Swim for the shore,” she instructed, handing him a sapphire pendant necklace. “This will allow you to breathe underwater. From there my horse will take you a refuge. At first light you must flee.”

“Where to?” Max rubbed his sore wrists. “This simulation’s fucked, isn’t it?”

“You chose to be a criminal,” she lamented. “Go where I tell you. There’s no time for talk. When it’s safe, I will call you back when the criminal underworld resumes.”

With King Alistair dead, Queen Grace reigned in a kingdom that became more peaceful and amenable under her rule. She looked after the common people and did not place the rich higher than the poor.

Lady Clara relinquished her mansion and set off on an adventure through the forest with Zevran, while Zoe kept a watchful eye over her charges until it was confirmed that the simulation was, indeed, at last, over…


End file.
